It was a crisp morning in early September. In that high altitude the air seemed wonderfully refreshing, and every one felt capable of the task that now engaged their attention.
The Indian guide assured them that they need have no apprehensions regarding the passage of the mountains, for he would lead them across as his people had come on many an occasion.
By the time noon came they had mounted far enough to have a splendid view of the plateau over which their journey for the last few days had been made. It was well worth seeing, and many times did the travelers glance backward over that extended vista, with longing thoughts concerning the loved ones who, far away toward the east, awaited word of their homecoming.
Roger had not forgotten what he had heard about those strange sheep of the mountains, with their great curved horns. He was very eager to discover whether the tales the Indians told could be true or not, and many a look did he bend on the crags above them in hope of discovering a herd of the bighorns.
It was about the middle of the afternoon, and in company with Dick he was riding at some little distance ahead of the main company, when Roger actually discovered the object he sought.
“‘THERE! YOU CAN SEE HIM MOVE’”
“Oh, look, Dick! Tell me! is that one of those sheep of the mountains up there on that little patch of grass? There! you can see him move. He sees us, but believes himself so secure that he doesn’t bother to run away.”
“It must be what you say, Roger, for I can see the horns they told us about, which curve backward from his head. There, another has come around that spur of rock. I think there must be a small flock of them up there.”